A State of Fear Read Free Page B

right arm and foot have lost their power to move, my feet are covered in scabs and open sores. My bladder is bleeding and my urine is full of blood. Living like this is worthless. Kill me then I’ll feel relief from the pain and wounds you’ve inflicted on me. At least I know I’ll be remembered by our people for resisting.’
    ‘You think the people support you?’ he scoffed. ‘You’re nothing. All of our people are Hezbollah. They despise you. If we handed you to them they’d tear you apart.’ He removed theblindfold and handed me a pen and stack of paper with a list of questions. ‘Answer all these questions and anything else you know. I’ll be back.’
    It was not until around midnight, nine hours later, that an interrogator entered and asked me if I had finished writing. ‘No,’ I replied, taking the opportunity to add, ‘My medicine is still in the infirmary. I have to take it every three hours. Now nine have passed. Would you please take me to the infirmary?’
    He reluctantly agreed and, after reapplying the blindfold, led me away.
     
    Every two or three days, Haji Samad or another of the interrogators would demand information. One day, while I was sitting on that now familiar bed frame, a Hezbollahi came over and whispered in my ear. He knew my name and talked about where I used to work. ‘I know you weren’t a bad guy,’ he said, ‘but I warn you, if you don’t co-operate, you won’t get out of here alive.’
    I never saw that man again. Or if I did, I was not aware of it. But then I never actually saw the faces of my interrogators, as my time with them was spent blindfolded and turned against the cold prison walls. Not long after that strange encounter the Hezbollahis tried a new approach. I was taken to the torture rooms as usual, then Haji Samad entered with two others. ‘The information you’ve given us is rubbish,’ he said. ‘Are you going to tell us what we need to know, or not?’
    ‘Haji,’ I replied, ‘you have all the information I’ve got.’
    ‘Hang him from the meat hook.’ he ordered, ‘and keep him there until he’s more talkative.’
    The two men bound my wrists together behind my back with one elbow behind my head pointing up and the other pointing downwards. They picked me up and hung my wrists over a meat hook fastened to the ceiling. My entire body weight was now supported by my shoulder joints at anagonising angle and my toes barely scraped the floor. Ribs, spine and shoulder joints were instantly put under enormous stress. This is a form of crucifixion and it severely restricts breathing. I could only prevent asphyxiation by making my legs rigid and standing on tiptoes. But I couldn’t take this forced position for long and my legs soon started shaking with exhaustion. I was forced to take the stress back on my chest and shoulders. I alternated from one agonising position to the other. They took me off the hook for short periods, during which I was fed and taken to the toilet.
    This torture is known as ghapani after the system used to weigh lamb carcasses. It was used as far back as the Shah’s reign and many of the unfortunates who are hung up in this way would lose all sensitivity around their shoulders. They are left with great pain in their neck and back which persists for years. My own time on the ghapani only ended because I could no longer be kept conscious long enough to be tortured. On the third day the stress on my body caused my left collar bone to snap. I screamed in agony, again and again. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t stand. At last I couldn’t get any more air into my lungs and, thankfully, passed out.
    The Hezbollahis had at last seen there was little point in probing my immediate political activities and moved onto broader issues. ‘We understand you teach at the university.’
    ‘That is correct.’
    ‘There are lots of pretty girls there. Did you have sex with them?’
    ‘My job is to educate our youth. It’s to enrich our country